


Shadows Are the Only Hypocrites

by KitsJay



Category: Jack Kerouac RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF, didn't happen, lucky strikes, mentions of 50s sensibilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter what you call yourself, just what you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows Are the Only Hypocrites

“It doesn’t matter what you call yourself,” Neal said, frowning. “It doesn’t matter about labels and compartmentalizing. It’s all about what you do. If someone says they love peace and then kills someone, then they’re not hypocrites. I don’t believe in hypocrites. They don’t exist. You are what you do, not what you say, not what you or anyone else calls you.”

There was something organic about the way Neal spoke, like a vine snaking through his brain and leaves unfurling into new corners, pushing against them and filling the spaces in between, the fruits lying ripe and full on his tongue and slipping through his lips to fall onto the ground. All of it made sense, not necessarily in the order of the words, but the combination in some holy garden of his mind.

Jack shook his head in a slow, fluid movement, and his eyes saw Neal with a new sense of awe in them. 

“Yeah, man,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “I believe that.”

Somewhere in the recesses of thought, he did not believe what Neal said, or some societal constraint caused him to instinctively balk from the simplicity of the theory, but Neal’s voice was so charismatic, so persuasive, that it seemed sacrilege to contradict him. It would be like swearing in church or flipping the bird to the statues of saints as you walked into cathedrals. He fought the urge to cross himself at the thought.

Neal looked pleased with himself, beaming in a broad, expansive manner and letting loose a small laugh from the side of his mouth. He leaned on Jack’s shoulder, reaching out with long calloused fingers to pluck the cigarette out of Jack’s hand and raise it to his lips. He breathed in deeply, feeling the smoke between his ribs and thinking about the doctors on the commercials who said smoking was good for you. 

“Lucky Strikes separate the men from the boys,” his voice skating the bottom of the musical register, halfway between singing and speaking. 

“What’s that?”

Neal shook his head, “Nothin’.” 

He handed the cigarette back and leaned until the curve of his spine rested unevenly against the concrete steps. One hand crept forward until it was tangled in Jack’s curls, and he pulled his head down until it laid against Neal’s, the features of his face buried in the crook of his neck. 

They lay there silently, tensely waiting for a policeman to walk past and roust them from their place, or someone to walk past with disgust on their face. The sun threw its last streaks of heat across the sky, reaching out and falling behind the clouds like the end of the play. Neal smiled suddenly. End of the day, end of the play. He replaced the Lucky Strike jingle’s words with those, humming it and feeling a sudden closeness to Jack that he had not felt before. He pulled him closer, feeling Jack shift uncomfortably. Jack’s skin scalded Neal where he touched it, and he let his fingers dance over the knobs of the bony trail of spine, imagining tiny flames burning his fingers. 

“We’re not hypocrites?” he felt more than heard against the side of his neck.

“What’s that?” he mumbled. Something kept him from speaking loudly as he normally did, but even Neal’s whispers were larger than life. Jack had once said his whisper was like God, a still small voice and bigger than most people’s shouts. Neal said something about his personality, but he hoarded that comment in his chest like treasure, taking it out and staring at it in moments alone, rubbing it with his shirt sleeve to make it shine. 

Jack pulled back, allowing Neal’s hand to follow. “We’re not hypocrites.”

Neal’s hand carded through dark curls. “No. I already said there was no such thing.”

“So when we do this, then turn around and say we aren’t—“ Jack shifted uncomfortably.

“Homosexuals?” Neal said primly, a tiny smile crooking the corner of his mouth up.

“Yeah.”

“Nah. There’s no such thing. We’re just people. That’s all.”

Jack swallowed hollowly. “Just people. That’s all we are.”

Neal tugged him close again, fighting any resistance until Jack was plastered along his side.

“What if someone sees us?” Jack said, even though shadows lapped at their feet and ran across the streets, pushed by the wind and dappled streetlights.

“We’ll tell them you’re drunk,” Neal said easily. “We’ll just lie. No one will know.”


End file.
